Day 10 -- Michael, row the boat ashore
Victoria, the lady who runs Burnville Farm, having very kindly offered to do a load of laundry for me, I'm free to buzz off after breakfast, free as the mountain air, towards today's big jaunt, St. Michael's Mount.
Mrs. Longford peacably agrees to guide me there. I very much like Cornish scenery too -- a spareness, a toughness, an expansiveness. Total trip takes about an hour and a half. Walk out on the causeway a bit -- it's not quite ready to walk over yet. Find nice shells -- some still inhabited, which I put into the water. No one else seems to notice them -- sometimes you've got to stop and smell the snails, people! Amazing how patient the sea is -- limpets, seaweed and snails waiting quietly for the water to come back, as it will.
(Later at home, I find this in STW's letters: "Not Catholic, Presbyterian, Quaker or agnostic -- just an observer. What a convincing faith, though taxing. When I consider my own faith I can match it to nothing but seaweed with one end in the sea & t'other fastened to sea's rock. The sea's mood shape its being. There it floats, twists, swirls, entangles, disentangles, rooted to a sea rock's identity.")
Take a boat over to the Mount -- they crisscross over all the time, so not much time lost. As we putt-putt over, see that some people have taken off shoes and are walking through shallow water on causeway -- but I'm happy enough not to be among them.
Watch short propaganda film before venturing up. (This will be my official Athletic Feat for the trip -- see Montsegur, Uffington White Horse in previous diaries.) St. Michael's Mount is where the Spanish Armada was first sighted. This is also where the original story of Jack the Giant Killer comes from -- watching recreation of tale in video, I posit that giant was probably cranky from lack of adequate dentistry. Giant's heart, hardened and pickled in brine, is to be found on the steps going up. Film dwells fondly on obsessive gambler baronet in eighteenth century, who lost the St. Aubyn family fortune and is even pictured in his official portrait looking over unpaid bills and summons for debt.
Chapel is still the parish church -- I can imagine it requires a lot of devotion to haul self that far upward every Sunday. There's a really wonderful St. Michael and the demon -- for once, no kebabing is taking place -- the mere light of Michael's countenance is enough to send demon writhing away helplessly. Get to see what a truncheon looks like, in military portion of the house -- along with, inexplicably, a full samurai warrior's costume.
AND the butler made a model of the island in champagne corks...
Way down is as deadly as way up, except worse because gravity is tempting you, and you're tired. Celebrate safe return to terra firma by crawling into cafe for a jacket potato with bacon and cream cheese (which might have been more accurately listed on the menu as "bacon and cream cheese with a potato under there somewhere"). Am able to walk across causeway under pleasantly warm haze.
Note to self: never indulge in Buckland's Tonic Wine, which is delivered to the impatient gullets of its consumers via tanker truck.
Lot of time in the car today, alas -- though I have to say that the Audi's power is a delight. Just give her the barest tap, and she surges like a thoroughbred to overtake lorries uphill.
Village names of note: Lewannick. Plusha. Polyphant. Ventongimpes. Sticker. My hagiography is enlarged by the addition of St. Mewan and St. Erney.
Everything is going smoothly, toward a goal of heading back Tavistock-wards for a late afternoon visit to Buckland Abbey, thence home to Burnville Farm. Mrs. Longford suddenly announces that she's changing the route to avoid traffice on the main freeway, and plunges me into an endless scenic route of small Cornish towns, on roads obstructed by local traffic, and every moment I'm losing time at Buckland Abbey...
...which I eventually arrive at with time for very quick visit. It's Sir Francis Drake's home, after having been the last Cistercian foundation in England. Drake's drum will sound when he's needed again. Apparently, Spanish parents still threaten their disobedient children that "el Draque" will come and get them! And you just can't get away from damn obsidian flaking -- there are some Miwok arrowheads from Drake's trip to California. Documents from the trial of one Morgan Tillert, who was left behind after a Central American skirmish and had to explain his heretical Protestant goings-on to the Inquisition, after several years living peacably in Mexico. (He blamed everything on Drake.)
Zip out, zip home in time for bath before dinner. Lamb in honey marinade, with ridiculous amount of side vegetables. Little tortoiseshell cat saunters in during dessert and discovers that I know where all the sweet spots are.
Oh yes, saw first Dartmoor ponies today! Just turned the corner and voila, pony munching away by the side of the road. There's a sign as you're coming onto the moor, which says "Kill your speed, not a pony," which says it pretty neatly, don't you think? There's also an international Caution - Wild Ponies roadsign.